


Stones in the Mountains

by sophiahelix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dark, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, community: asoiaf_exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-02
Updated: 2008-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:50:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne grows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stones in the Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Greyfable in the asoiaf_exchange community.

She never wore a direwolf cloak.

Things changed outside the Vale. One morning the whole keep was roused by the clamor of horns and hooves, men riding sweat-soaked horses with little harness and no gear or weapons. Petyr was at their head, and the huge gates were thrown shut and barred at his shouted command. Alayne watched him from her window, the curtains pulled close around her face to preserve modesty and warmth. He strode back and forth before the gate as his horse was led away, massaging his jaw with a wild look in his eye. She'd never seen him so disheveled, so discomposed, and she ducked away before he glanced her way.

She did not see him for many hours, until supper was laid in the hall below. He kept to his seat near Lord Nestor at the head and spoke with the other lords who had been arriving all day, their voices low and their faces grim. She was kept busy with Sweetrobin, whose newfound interest in watching sword practice led him to joust with every piece of meat on his plate. She snuck glances when she could, and what she saw did not encourage her. The men did not look angry; they looked afraid.

Petyr sent for her just as she was unlacing her dress for bed, and rather than waste time she simply pulled the laces through the top holes into a sloppy bow and wrapped a woolen shawl about herself. He'd left, once, when she'd kept him waiting too long, and she hadn't seen him for days after.

When she entered the study, Petyr was not seated at his usual place behind Lord Nestor's desk, but stood by a long west-facing window, his face half-hidden by the curtain as he gazed out. He looked like she had this morning, she thought, wary and secretive, and the thought made her feel frightened too.

"I hope you have all the fineries and fripperies you require," he said shortly. "The Gates of the Moon will not be opening for some time."

Alayne nodded, waiting.

"Don't you want to know why?"

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. He never wanted questions from her.

"What has happened, Father?" she asked, making the words gentle. "Is it – something with the king?"

Petyr swallowed, and the muscles in his throat twitched in the candlelight. He was still unshaven. "The Lannisters are finished in King's Landing," he said.

 _I am a Lannister_ , thought Sansa.

"They're dead?" Alayne asked her father.

"Some of them are." He turned from the window, pulling the curtains tightly shut, and sat at his desk, sighing heavily. "Never the ones you want," he added, with a wry, bitter grin that was a little more like his old self.

She licked her lips and opened her mouth.

"Not Tyrion," Petyr said. "But the imp is an only child now."

"How did – " she started, and then caught herself.

Petyr looked at her and laughed, still bitter-sounding. "I see you want a story. I doubt this one will put you to sleep. Come here."

He turned from the desk, spreading his legs, and patted one knee. She hesitated at first, as she had grown at least an inch in the last few months, but went to sit, his arm around her waist. It wasn't comfortable, but it was better than standing in the door like a servant.

"This is a story about why secrets should stay secret, my daughter." His hand tightened on her hip, and she nodded quickly, understanding. "There once was a brother and a sister who loved each other very much. _Very_ much. There was no one in the world for him but her, and no one in the world for her but him. They wanted never to be parted, and always to spend their days together."

Petyr looked at her, seeming to want something.

"Were they parted?" she asked after a moment.

"Of course," he said. "He became a valiant knight and she was married to a powerful lord. In time he became the greatest knight in the land and she became queen, because that is what happens to beautiful people like them. But still their passionate, their _beautiful_ love never faded."

He stopped again, one corner of his mouth turning up into something like a sneer.

"Shouldn't brothers and sisters love each other?" Alayne ventured.

"Oh, yes," he said, coming back to himself. "Fathers and daughters too. But the love between these two was special, and in time three _very_ special children were born."

"To the queen?" she asked. "And the king?"

"Yes and no," Petyr said, and smiled, waiting.

"Then – "

"These three special, _golden_ children were reared by the king, them thinking he was their father and he thinking the same. And when that poor, stupid king died, the eldest boy became king after him… without a drop of royal blood in his veins."

She breathed a little faster now, following the story.

"That boy was as stupid as the king, even though they were not related, and he soon followed him into death. They both seemed to have trouble with wine."

Petyr stopped, seeming to muse on his words, and she leaned forward. "And – "

"You want to know how the story ends?" he asked, his eyes focusing sharply. "The next boy became king, and he married a girl with a powerful family, and things were not looking too hopeful for our brother and sister. The queen had certain schemes, and certain … _foibles_ , and it was not too long before she caught herself in a trap of her own making. She was sentenced to death, unless her champion could win a duel of honor. And of course, who should be her champion but her brother, the most valiant knight in the land?"

"But he had no sword hand."

Petyr looked at her, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Indeed. That did not stop him."

"He loved his sister?"

"He loved his son. The son who everyone still believed was the rightful king. That was the only reason the boy was still alive, you see. He was like a little crown being handed about, and whoever held him when the music stopped ruled the land." Petyr looked wistful again.

"The duel?" she asked impatiently.

"The brother had learned to fight with his left hand. Not as well as he had fought before, but still better than most swordsmen in the kingdom. He might have won."

"But?"

"But for the cries of his sister, watching him as he fought for their lives. Weeks of imprisonment had worked like poison on her, and she looked like a madwoman where she sat chained in her seat. A beautiful madwoman, to be sure, but her green eyes were wild and bloodshot, her golden hair had grown tangled and white, and her musical voice was high and cracked as she called out to her brother the things that would kill them both."

"What did she say?" Alayne whispered.

"She called him her lover. She cursed the dead king that had been her husband. And she cried out to her brother to save their son." He looked at her, fondly now. "You see, of course, why the brother had to lose the duel."

She shook her head.

"If he died, then his sister died with him. And his son would be safe, because the only thing that kept him alive was this lie, that he was rightful wearer of that little crown."

They were both silent.

"Then Tommen is still king?" she asked.

"Tommen is still king. And he's fallen into the hands of those blasted Tyrells, who want nothing in trade and have no hidden skeletons as far as I can tell, other than a few bastards and that pretty son they've hidden in the White Tower. He isn't even the _heir_." Petyr pounded his free hand on the desk, looking angry again.

"I don’t understand," she said with a frown.

"Better you should not. We could have used that innocence on that shy cripple down at Highgarden… but double blast, the Tyrells have got all the Lannisters in the Riverlands between them and the north, and Kevan will fight them tooth and nail now that they've put his niece and nephew to death."

She could not follow his talk at all. "They're dead?"

"Dead the day I left King's Landing, my dear," he said. "I do so love a good political imbroglio, but I prefer to watch from behind my own gates."

He was silent another moment, working something out, and she had time to imagine the scene he'd described. Queen Cersei, a shrieking madwoman? Ser Jaime losing a duel? And King Robert's children not his children at all?

"To bed with you, my sweet," Petyr said abruptly, standing so she slid off his knee. Her shawl slipped down, and she hastily pulled it up. "Sleep and keep that pretty smile. Cares are ugly on a woman's face."

He tucked the shawl around her shoulders, his fingers cold where they touched the bare skin of her neck. "We'll be executing that marriage contract earlier than I expected. I leave for Castle Black within the fortnight, and I'd like to have matters arranged first."

Alayne hissed in a breath, her eyes going wide. "But – "

"We'll waste no more time worrying about the imp. His brother's dead, and he'll be executed for murder if he ever sets foot in Westeros again. Besides, Harry won't be married to Sansa Stark. Not yet."

"I'm married already," she said, desperately.

"No one will know."

" _I'll_ know."

Petyr was still arranging her shawl, and he paused, his hands on her shoulders. His thumbs stroked very lightly beneath her jaw.

"Did the dwarf bed you?" he asked, looking down, away from her eyes.

She shook her head.

"Then content yourself that you'll come as a maiden to your new husband. That is more than some brides."

Petyr held onto her a moment longer, tilting her face up. He studied her, his eyes unfocused. His hands were warm on her now.

"Perhaps more than the lad could expect," he said, low, almost to himself.

She could scarcely breathe, and was about to say something, anything, when he abruptly released her and sat before the desk once more.

"Go," he said. "The night is freezing, and I don't want you dying of fever before your wedding."

"Why will he marry me?" she asked, her discomfort making her bold. "If I'm not – if I don't bring land to the marriage?"

"You're still the daughter of the Lord Protector," Petyr said, shuffling papers. "The very wealthy Lord Protector, I might add. And when I return, it will be to announce that we are the vassals of King Stannis Baratheon."

She could only shake her head at this fresh surprise.

"You'll be Lady Sansa of the north after all," he said. "And perhaps queen one day. These mountain roads are terribly treacherous in the winter."

He looked down once more, and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

Alayne did not take sick, but she sniffled all through her second wedding, held in the drafty stone hall at Ironoaks. Her heavy cloak, silver mockingbirds on a green field, felt rough and strange on her shoulders, and she heard the murmur that went up when her husband wrapped his own cloak around her, blazoned with the soaring falcon of the Arryns instead of the red and silver diamonds of House Hardyng. The guests had more important things to discuss at the feast, however, such as the party about to embark for the Wall on the morrow, and she spoke shyly with her new husband in their own corner.

Harry was neither tall nor short, plain nor handsome. His eyes were blue like hers, and his hair was almost golden, his nose slightly crooked from a blow swung by a novice squire with a wooden sword. He told her about that, eagerly, and about learning to joust and hunt, and everything else a newly-knighted boy of eighteen years cared about. She remembered her lessons in the polite small talk required of a gently-born lady with gratitude, and heard the pleasant tones of his voice without really listening. As far as husbands went, he was better than a dwarf, she thought.

Her thoughts were somewhat different that night. _You do know what goes on in a marriage bed?_ Lady Randa had asked her as they descended the mountain months ago, and the chasm between what she had known then and what she knew now was wide, unimaginable. She felt bitterly that _someone_ should have said something, warned her. But who? Sniggering servants? Lady Randa, with her mocking eyes? Her father?

Alayne imagined her father telling her about that coarse fumbling in the dark, her sitting on his knee, he arranging her shawl, and her cheeks flamed even more than they had last night when Harry pushed aside her nightdress. She flung back the covers and went to bathe.

Her father had already left when she came down to breakfast, and those same sniggering servants whispered to one another as they laid a bowl of porridge before her. Before she would have flushed yet again, silently trying to take up as little space as possible, but today she was the wife of Harry the Heir. She held her head up and looked the chief servant in the eye, just as her husband came downstairs, yawning.

"Take this away," she said, gesturing at the bowl. "Bring me bread and sausages. Fresh ones."

Petyr was to be gone for two months, which stretched to three, which stretched to four. Lady Randa married the youngest of Lady Waynwood's sons and came to live at Ironoaks too. Alayne was very pleased to see her, as the other young girls at the manor were dull and rather tiresome. Harry was kind, but a squire still, and the long hours of sitting in the solar with Lady Waynwood and her women were wearying. These days she was apt to drop off over her embroidery, the world going blurry and cock-eyed just before she closed her eyes, and she spent the rest of the time in a kind of sluggish daze, she thought, waiting for _something_ to happen.

"Well, you look a bit more like a wife than you did at your wedding," Lady Randa said, eying her up and down when they met in the hall. "Less like a scared mouse, more like a scared rabbit. And your breasts look more wifely as well."

Alayne blushed and covered her chest with one arm. "They hurt," she said.

"Do they?" Lady Randa asked. She cocked her head on one side. "Turn for me, child."

Alayne stepped in a circle dutifully, dropping her arms. "I'm taller."

"Mm. Tell me, how is old Grainne the cook these days? Too dotty to make a proper meal?"

"Oh no," Alayne said. "That is, no one else complains about the food tasting odd. But I… how did you know?"

"Little goose," said Lady Randa. "You're going to have a baby."

Almost five months after her wedding, Alayne woke once again to the sound of horses in the cobbled court below. She was still sluggish in the mornings, and most of the household was assembled at breakfast when she finally came down, still working at her braid. They all looked up as she entered, but no one said a word until Lady Waynwood crossed to her, eyes red.

"Oh, child," Lady Waynwood said, throwing her arms around Alayne. "My poor dear daughter."

This was how she learned that Lord Stannis had a witch woman with him who could read the hearts of men, and that two of her father's men had returned that morning with her father's head.

She did not cry, sitting alone all day in her room, the door barred against would-be comforters. It felt more like she was sitting in a cocoon, struggling to tear away an old skin and be something new, as the child inside her was. At dusk she rose.

"Sansa Stark is dead too," she said, and went to supper.

Harry was kinder to her as the days passed. He'd had a daughter, he confessed, with a girl who tended goats in a village nearby, but he was sure that Alayne would give him a son.

"Many sons," he whispered, touching her in bed at night. "I think perhaps I should always keep you with child. You look lovely this way."

She had two sons in two years, and then a daughter. Her world grew smaller, no longer just the Vale, no longer just Ironoaks, now only the rooms in which she dressed and dandled her children. It was a simple life, but a sweet one, and when Lady Randa's children joined her own the pleasures were greater. She was a woman, and her husband did not stink of garlic and deer jerky, like Lady Randa's husband, nor was he overfond of dicing or drinking or peasant women, like most of the other men. Besides sword fighting his greatest love was hunting, and if he sometimes took his time returning from a hunt, Alayne did not mind. This was how husbands and wives behaved.

Sweetrobin's fits grew worse as he grew older. Bronze Yohn had taken him in when he became Lord Protector, and treated the boy as a man, not a sniveling baby, he said. Robin did seem to improve when Alayne visited him occasionally; he danced the shadow dance with the other boys in the yard, enthusiastically if clumsily, and began to carry himself more upright, to put away childish demands, even to lace his own tunic. She had hope that he would shake off the influence of his mother yet, until the message came that he had fallen from a horse in one of his fits, cracked his skull on a cobble, and died within a matter of hours.

Alayne did cry this time. Robin looked so small and frail on the bier, a large white bandage wrapped around his head. They had laid a small sword on his chest, hardly more than a dagger, and his little hands clasped over it were callused and tanned. He'd come so close, she thought, to growing up. Then her baby daughter Jeyne began to cry on her shoulder, and she rocked and shushed her.

They moved into the Arryns' winter home within the fortnight. It was only a few miles from the foot of the Eyrie, and Harry looked up wistfully every so often when he rode out with his men. But the snow fell thicker every day, and it would be long before anyone made that climb again.

Their lives as Lord and Lady did not, after all, change very much, except she had more women in the house who looked to her, and she was expected to train up younger girls to be ladies as well. If anyone ever commented on the strangeness of a Stone rising to the eagle's nest, it was where she couldn't hear them.

And then one day the messenger came.

She had heard the men talk in the evenings for many months now. Fighting in the north, and fighting in the south, and finally fighting in King's Landing. Alayne did not know who was fighting who. The mountains and snow were like a thick blanket around them all, keeping away the outside world. They had gone for years without lemons or lace, or any other luxuries that could not be made within the Vale, but it seemed a small price to pay for safety. When the men held their hushed conversations she would sit by the fire, pressing her face into the lace cap her baby wore, and listen to the chatter of the women.

It was hard to understand what they told her.

"Lord Stannis is dead?" she asked.

"The witch woman was not strong enough, it seems," Lady Waynwood sniffed.

"And the Tyrells…"

"Tore themselves to pieces fighting the Lannisters, just as the Lannisters threw themselves right onto Tyrell swords," Lady Randa said. "Still, the Tyrells might have had the upper hand if it weren't for the Dornish pincering in from behind."

"I think the Lannisters would have had the advantage," said Lady Waynwood.

"If it weren't for the Ironmen!" little Leona Linderley put in.

Alayne put a hand to her eyes. "Now, who is it who holds King's Landing again?"

"I told you," Lady Waynwood said gently. "The queen from the east. The rightful queen, it seems, a daughter of the old family. The Tyrells and Lannisters had done for each other, and with the Dornish declaring for her there was only Lord Stannis between her and the throne."

"It must have been something to see," Leona breathed. "They say he rode onto the field at the head of a thousand flames and monsters – creatures from the north, you know, and things that woman of his conjured up. Do you know if he was handsome?"

Alayne shook her head.

"Anyhow, I'm sure he fought most gallantly, with that fiery host behind him, and I'm sure he might have won if – "

"If one of the queen's dragons hadn't swooped down and bitten his head off," Lady Randa said, rolling her eyes. "There's a bit of justice for you, Lady Arryn."

Alayne blinked, her heart catching in her throat for a moment. "Yes," she managed.

"And now the queen has taken the city," Lady Waynwood said. "Those Tyrells and Lannisters who are left are bowing and scraping to her. She already gave the stormlands to the Dornish, and the Tyrells fear she'll give them the Arbor too. The Lannisters just want to avoid the fate of Riverrun."

Alayne raised her eyebrows.

"Edmure Tully was breakfast for a dragon as well," Lady Randa said. "Although over several days, I believe."

"But – why?" Alayne asked.

"The queen is rounding up all those who had a hand in her family's downfall," Lady Waynwood said. "The Baratheons are wiped out entirely, of course, and I suppose the Kingslayer's lucky he lost that duel years ago. And, let's see, who else."

"The Starks," old Lady Corbray said. She had been drowsing in a chair by the fire, but sat up now, clutching her shawl around her. Her eyes were dark and still sharp in her wrinkled face.

"What's that?" Lady Randa asked, raising her voice and putting on a simper.

Lady Corbray waved her hand in impatience. "The Lannisters put Ned Stark to death, but there were several children."

"Doubtless none have survived," Lady Waynwood said. "The years since King Robert's death have been hard."

"The Starks are hard," Lady Corbray said. "Young Ned was fostered at the Eyrie. If his children are anything like that little mule, don't be too sure they're dead. And Ned was always hand in glove with the Baratheons."

The fire had warmed the room, but Alayne shivered still. The children were with the nursemaid, but she wished suddenly she had a baby to hold.

"The queen's issued a demand to everyone of consequence," Lady Waynwood went on, after a silence. "They're all meant to come and prove their loyalty by dancing indefinite attendance on her. I am sure she wishes she hadn't had Stannis's witch woman eaten as well."

"I heard she has powers too," said little Leona. "She sees things."

"Be that as it may," Lady Randa said. "She still wants to get a gander at the new Lord and Lady of the Eyrie, so the entire household must move bag and baggage to King's Landing before she sends a dragon our way. _They_ can cross mountains, you know."

"Move?" Alayne asked, her mouth falling open.

"Of course," said Lady Waynwood. She reached out to pat Alayne's hand. "Don't worry, of course your women will do all the packing for you. And the bandits have mostly left, since there have been no travelers to prey on."

"Mostly," Lady Randa said, with a catlike smile.

"I don't want to go to King's Landing," Alayne said to Harry that night as he pulled off his boots.

"Don't be silly," he said, chucking a boot into the corner. "We must go. It's death otherwise."

"I know that," she said. "But why must I go? I – the children need me. And I run the house."

"Whatever visiting lady is here runs the house," he laughed. "But you must be there as well. The queen demands loyalty from all her subjects."

She frowned. "Must we stay long?"

"I shouldn't think so," he said. "Just let her know the Vale is hers, if she wants a valley full of rocks and snow and the finest standing army left in Westeros, and then leave for home. But don't you want to see the capital? You've never been west before."

The truth almost bubbled up then, the secrets she scarcely even thought of any longer, and she bit her tongue to stop it. "I – I have. Once. My father took me."

"Your father didn't take you as Lady Arryn," Harry said, reaching over to caress her cheek. "Don't you want new dresses and fineries and fruits? It's all the other women can talk about. We've been shut up here for nearly five years like prisoners."

Alayne smiled, and reached up to touch his hand. "If I must."

"'If I must,'" Harry mocked, grinning. He tossed his other boot in the corner and climbed under the piles of goose down with her. "You're the only woman in the castle who talks about getting a new dress like she's being dragged to slaughter."

 _Edmure Tully was breakfast for a dragon_ , she thought, as Harry reached for her.

They saw no bandits on the long, cold journey to King's Landing, but it was uncomfortable enough without them. Visions of another journey to the city kept rising in her mind as they rode, and it was hard to stop thinking of her old life. _Alayne_ , she thought, curling into the cushions. _My children are Petyr, Jon, and Jeyne. My husband is Harry. My home is the Vale. I have never been to the north._

She kept the curtains shut all through the ride up the streets of the city, while the other ladies peeked out and called back gaily to the others of all the wonders they were seeing. Bolts of fabric, piles of oranges, heaps of spices and shoes and ribbons. She buried her face deeper into the cushion.

Their lodgings were not large, but well-furnished, and in the flurry of unpacking she wandered to a quiet window seat out of the way of everyone else. Outside the window the Red Keep towered over everything, blocking out the sun.

They went to the keep that very evening, wrapped in furs and velvets. Everyone had ordered new dresses already, and Lady Randa told her the city's tailors were rolling in gold coins as they tried to keep up with the demand for court finery. Alayne tried to listen to Randa's ever-flowing stream of gossip, like a low mosquito whine in her ear, but everywhere around her the memories returned, choking her. She twisted at the reticule in her hands, named all the dogs and all the servants at Ironoaks in her head, but when they arrived in the throne room it was almost more than she could do to keep herself standing.

The room was crowded with people, packed so tightly that the air was hot and moist. The thick furs draped everywhere did nothing to alleviate the heat, and Alayne felt sweat bead on her face and neck immediately, trickling down her back. Lady Randa looked uncomfortable as well, and grimaced as they pressed forward.

But for all the crowd, the room was nearly silent. Horns rang out briefly as courtiers entered, but there was barely even a hum of conversation among those waiting. Alayne heard her name announced, and then Randa pulled her by the elbow to stand in her place behind a rather large man in a green velvet doublet. His white furs tickled her nose, so she stepped to the side to avoid him, her stomach still roiling.

And then she saw the queen.

Queen Daenerys I sat on the iron throne as no one had sat in years. She did not loll. She did not sit awkwardly around the spikes and swords, wincing when they brushed her skin. She sat straight, tall, proud, and there could be no doubt whose throne it was.

Lady Randa kept talking, as the line moved slowly forward, and Alayne made some replies which, it seemed, were enough to hold up her end of the conversation. She looked straight ahead all the while, though, at the white spark sitting at the base of that black, spiky monster of a chair, and her feet were as heavy as if she were going to the block.

"Blast," Lady Randa said, pulling Alayne out of her thoughts for a moment. "I've forgotten the royal curtsy. The war went on so long I doubted I'd need it again."

"Watch them," Alayne said, pointing to a pair of women. "It's the right leg, not the left. And see how they curve their arms above their heads."

"Above the head," Randa muttered, lifting her own arm as far as she could. "This confounded bodice is so tight, I'm bound to be eaten by a dragon on the spot."

Alayne smiled, and her fear lessened for just a moment. "More likely to be thrown on those spikes."

"That's the Targaryen spirit," Randa said.

They pressed onwards, though, and in far too little time the crowd parted before them, and Alayne stood alone facing the queen.

"Lady Alayne Arryn of the Vale," said a herald, and Alayne slid her right leg behind her, lifting her arm high as she held her dress, all those hours of training back at Winterfell and in this very castle coming back to her in an instant. _Arya never could get it right_ , she thought. _But then, she never cared._

She lifted her eyes as she straightened up. The queen's eyes were violet. Her hair was the silver of her gown, which was long, narrow, and shimmering, made in a foreign style of a foreign material, and it stood out like snow on her darkly tanned skin.

"Greetings, Lady Alayne," said the queen, and her voice was shimmering too. "You have traveled far this day."

Alayne could not speak for a moment. "Yes, your majesty," she managed.

The queen looked at her, her violet eyes narrowing. "I'm afraid my maesters have not trained me well enough. Who was your father?"

Alayne struggled again, the wrong words coming to her mind. The queen kept looking at her, and it seemed that in those violet eyes all Alayne's secrets were reflected. "Lord Petyr Baelish, your majesty. Once the master of coin."

"The Baratheons' master of coin?"

"Y – yes, your majesty. But – he left the city after Joffrey was murdered."

"Murdered," the queen said, musingly. "A strong word for stamping out vermin. But it speaks well of your father that he did not tarry long after the traitor's death. Was he a good master of the coin?"

"I – I believe so."

"He made the Baratheons very rich?"

"Yes, your majesty. He knew everything about money."

"A useful man. Is he in your retinue?"

"No, your majesty. He is dead."

"I am sorry," the queen said. "But it seems you have a husband to comfort you."

Alayne turned and Harry was there, out of breath and late.

"Your majesty," he said, sweeping off his hat and making a low bow. He gave her his most sparkling grin, and through her shaken state Alayne felt grateful once more for the man she had married.

"You are late, Lord Arryn," said the queen, but she seemed amused rather than angry. "I have spoken with your lady instead. It seems her father was not a staunch Baratheon supporter."

"Nor was I, your majesty," said Harry.

"Indeed? The Eyrie fostered the traitor, as I recall, and Jon Arryn masterminded his rebellion. I believe we may have much to discuss."

"If it please your majesty, I was only Jon Arryn's heir," Harry said. "I was raised as a squire in the home of my patroness. It is only lately that I – rose to my present position."

"A squire in the eagle's nest?" the queen said. "And married to the daughter of a little lord from a little country. The Arryns have fallen on hard times, it seems."

Harry looked uncomfortable for the first time. "I – I hope that under my stewardship this might be changed."

The queen laughed. "Ambition. I admire that. Provided it is in my service."

"Always, your majesty," said Harry, sweeping into another bow. After a glance at him, Alayne followed with a curtsy.

"I like your husband," said the queen. "So eager to please. And there are so few young people in court. Lady Alayne, will you wait on me tomorrow morning?"

Alayne blinked. "Of course, your majesty. Thank you, your majesty."

The queen raised a hand, and Alayne followed Harry away, leaving Lady Randa and her husband.

"What did you _say_ to her?" Harry whispered as she tucked her hand into his arm.

"Nothing," she whispered back. "Only something about my father. I can hardly recall now. She's very – intimidating, isn't she?"

"She's the queen," Harry said. "She had better be."

Something still stranger remained with her, though, and it was not until she was dressing for bed that Alayne realized what it was. The queen's dress had been as silver as her hair, but not as unblemished; it was spotted, here and there, with dark spots of blood. The queen had sat upon swords the whole while, and still she smiled.

The other ladies were anxious to help Alayne dress the next morning. She found herself swimming in petticoats as they threw them over, and then clinging to the bedpost as her blue velvet overdress was laced up in back. Her handmaiden fussed over the silver embroidery at the hem and neck, while Lady Randa arranged her hair under a small blue cap.

"It's lucky you look so good in the Arryn colors," Randa said through a mouthful of pins. "Just think if you'd had to wear the Hardyng colors. That awful red with your hair!"

Alayne nodded, and got a hairpin in her scalp for her trouble. Her handmaiden gave the hem one more good shake, and Randa climbed down from her stool.

"There," she said. "Now, go be charming and witty and get the queen to carve out a nice big chunk of the Trident for us. Everything east of the Twins will do nicely."

Walking through the halls of the Red Keep was no less unsettling than it had been last night, but Alayne was better guarded against it. She was not guarded against the sight of the solar, though, and as she entered it was under a hailstorm of memories. Queen Cersei, Queen Margaret, Jeyne Pool. _Her sister_. The queen was sitting where Arya had used to sit, on a wooden chair near the eastern window, and she looked up when the footmen showed Alayne in.

"Your majesty," said Alayne. She curtseyed low and kept her eyes down, trying to keep her breathing steady. The Queen of Thorns had once promised to marry her to the heir of Highgarden, she remembered.

"You may sit," said the queen, and Alayne chose a small, cushioned seat, hardly more than a stool. The queen remained in her chair a moment longer.

"No," she said. "This is a room for sewing and gossip. I hate being here."

Alayne looked up, startled.

"Let us walk on the battlements," the queen said. "I'll need three sets of furs, but at least I can breathe the fresh air."

"Your majesty," Alayne said, and followed the queen out the door.

The battlements were as cold as expected and Alayne could see the queen's teeth chattering, even beneath the fur hood she wore. But she still looked majestic, her violet eyes wide as she looked out over the harbor, and there was something about her that reminded Alayne of the graceful white birds that sailed over the salt marshes below.

"I'm always cold here," said the queen. "This is my native country, but I can never stop shivering."

"It's winter, your majesty," said Alayne. "I have never seen winter either."

The queen smiled a little. "Still," she said. "I should keep myself warm inside, like my dragons with their bellies full of fire."

Alayne almost said something, then closed her mouth quickly. The queen saw.

"What?"

"Nothing, your majesty." The queen looked at her a moment longer. "Only – I thought it would look funny, your having a belly full of fire."

The queen laughed. "I suppose. Blowing flames would be useful. And quicker than speaking with all those courtiers below. So tiresome. Do you know why I asked for you today?"

Alayne shook her head.

"You were the youngest lady I spoke with, and the only one who spoke nothing but truth. You could have lied about your father, especially as he is dead."

"Why would – " Alayne started to ask, then stopped herself.

"To save yourself, of course," said the queen. "Some people think that I have a mind to rub out anyone who ever spoke to a Baratheon."

"I – " said Alayne. "I loved my father."

"And if he were still living, no doubt I would have loved him too," said the queen. "I am told that I need money. I want men like that, those who can be useful to me. I don't care if they were once bannermen to Renly Baratheon or were raised as squires who happened to be related to Jon Arryn. If I killed everyone, I should have no one."

Alayne nodded.

"It's useful to have them think I might have them killed, of course," the queen added with a little smile. "But there are only a few left who must die before I am finished."

Alayne swallowed, hard. "Who, your majesty?"

"It's a pity I couldn't have roasted the Kingslayer on Drogon's flames. It seems he died shamefully without me, though. Eddard Stark helped himself into an early grave as well, I hear. But he had children."

"Children, your majesty?" Alayne heard herself ask from far away.

"They may be dead. I have been tracking down the Baratheon bastards, blast their seed, and many of those were lost. But I must tear out that family, root and branch, and I must do the same for the Starks."

It was an age before Alayne could ask. "Why?"

The queen smiled once more, a hard grimace this time that brought no joy to her face. "I am living proof of why. The traitors should have killed me and my brother, but they did not. I returned to be their downfall. I will not let the same happen to me."

Alayne said nothing, and the queen took her hand in her own furry, mittened one. "Come. I'll have my stewards prepare you a warm spiced drink from the east. Westeros has much to learn about cooking."

The drink was good, and so were the songs sung by the queen's eastern minstrels. Alayne could tell that the city was in for a new age of fashion, and it the streets they were already beginning to imitate the queen's style. It might even be fun, she thought, to live in King's Landing in Queen Daenerys's court.

When the queen bid her farewell, however, the warmth the drink had brought was gone. Those eyes, Alayne thought. Those eyes could see anything.

She could not escape royal command, however, and the queen called for her day after day. There were often other ladies as well, and she understood what the queen had meant when she said Alayne was different. The other ladies simpered and fawned, looking ridiculous in their eastern gowns, their hair tumbling down their backs like the queen's. They tittered at the half-dressed musicians who entertained them, and stitched silly samplers with dragons on them. The queen bore it as long as she could, but she was likely to send them away and keep Alayne for the rest of the day.

It did Alayne no favors. The other ladies she met first cozened up to her, hoping to win some of the queen's favor for themselves, but withdrew when they realized Alayne was uninterested in their friendship. They snubbed her instead, and Lady Randa told her that there were wicked lies put about – which were utterly unbelievable to anyone who'd met Alayne for a moment, Randa assured her.

"Sleeping with half your husband's men!" Randa scoffed. "As if people couldn't see the way you look at Harry. Or too fond of wine, I like that one. I doubt I've seen you drink more than a drop."

"No," Alayne said, distantly, as she combed her hair before bed.

Randa looked behind her at another girl, then lowered her voice. "Or even filthier things," she said in a kind of hiss. "About the queen and her… eastern appetites."

Alayne stopped brushing her hair. "What?"

"You know," Randa said. "The women of the Free Cities are famous for their… free ways."

"Randa," Alayne said, putting down her brush. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Randa smiled, sadly, mockingly. "That's why these rumors are so silly. You've brushed your silky hair enough for one night. How about helping a friend with her unruly mane?"

Alayne went to brush Randa's hair in silence. After a moment, Randa spoke again. "I've upset you, poor silly thing. Don't think about it any longer."

Alayne did think about it, and wondered all the next day what the Randa had meant. Was it the eastern food the queen favored? The spices made her cheeks go flushed and her mouth hurt, and sometimes the queen laughed and touched Alayne's swollen lips, red like a berry. Or the eastern dances? Alayne knew most of the court found the dancers' attire to be shocking and their movements coarse, but they were so beautiful when they danced. The queen could dance like that too, and sometimes she would dance a little for Alayne, or try to teach her. Alayne's many skirts and tight bodices made it impossible, of course, and she could never seem to follow the queen's hands as they moved her hips in circles. But if the queen liked the dancing, it must be all right, mustn't it?

Perhaps it was the clothes, she thought, watching the queen be fitted for a new set of winter garments in the Westeros style. All the men of the court were complaining that their wives wanted eastern dresses now. The material was expensive and must be imported, as Westeros wool and linen never seemed to drape right, and they fitted very differently, more like the dancers' garb. She could perhaps see why some ladies might find it unsuitable.

But the queen looked lovely in her own clothes, Alayne thought, as the queen threw a number of petticoats over the dressing screen and came out from behind it. She wore a set of loose pantaloons today, tucked into warm fur boots, and a thin blouse under a leather vest. Alayne widened her eyes, glancing around to see if anyone else was watching, but the servants and seamstresses had been dismissed.

"Yes?" the queen laughed. "You've never seen me in the raiment of my first queenship, have you? I was khaleesi to many riders on the sea of grass."

"Their women are queens?"

"Not many of them," said the queen with a smile. "Come. We should try some eastern clothing on you, my little mountain rabbit."

"I'm not a rabbit," Alayne protested, as she let herself be dragged towards the wardrobe room and behind another screen.

"No," said the queen, unlacing Alayne's dress. "You're not. You haven't got that hard, lean look the others from the Vale have."

"I," said Alayne. "I'm not from the Vale itself. My father's family is from the coast to the north." She shrugged out of her overdress and pushed down her underskirts, leaving her in pantaloons and a sleeveless undershirt. Her bare arms were cold.

"You don’t look like a fisherman's daughter either," said the queen, bringing an armful of silky dresses over. "Fishermen don't have skin like yours." The queen reached up to touch Alayne's cheek, and then her hair.

"My father wasn't a fisherman," Alayne said quietly. "He was a lord."

"And your mother? She gave you your red hair?"

Alayne felt the blush creep all the way down her neck. "I think so."

"You think so?"

The queen's violet eyes were very close to her now, and Alayne had that sense she'd had before, before that everything about her was reflected in them.

"I never knew my mother. She died."

"Her family?"

"She – " Alayne struggled, and then saw a shining light, a way out of the difficulty. "She wasn't married to my father."

"Ah," the queen said. She paused, tugged a lock of Alayne's hair, and let it go. "I see."

"Please, your majesty," Alayne said, letting a note of very real desperation creep into her voice. "Please don’t tell. Only those from the Vale know. I should be so ashamed – "

The queen raised a hand. "Of course."

"Thank you, your majesty," Alayne breathed.

The queen shook her head. "Let's dress you up like a lady of Qarth."

Alayne let herself be draped in the colorful fabrics, the queen's slender hands warm on her bare skin. The queen tugged pins from her hair too, and the red river of Alayne's hair tumbled over the green silk and down her back, nearly to her knees. She turned to the silvered mirror and looked at herself, the curves of her body visible beneath the dress.

"See?" said the queen, appearing over her shoulder in the mirror. "We could set you up in Qarth as a lady of favors, with your milk-pale skin."

"Lady of favors?" Alayne asked, still taking in the strange vision.

"You would have to learn to dance properly," said the queen. She slid her hands down to Alayne's hips and tugged them in a circle. Without the heavy petticoats it was easy to follow her, for once, and Alayne watched herself dance in the mirror under the queen's hands.

"What does a lady of favors do?" she asked.

"Offer them," said the queen. She turned so that her mouth was against Alayne's neck, barely touching it. "To those who ask."

"What if she refuses them?" Alayne asked, her mouth dry.

"Then some of them command," said the queen, and she kissed Alayne's shoulder.

Alayne watched the two strange women in the mirror for a while. It wasn't until the queen turned and kissed her on the mouth that she realized one of them was herself.

 _You do know what goes on in the marriage bed?_ Lady Randa had asked her years ago, and she'd thought she'd known, once. As the weeks went by Alayne learned more and more about the depths of her ignorance. It was not the only thing she learned from the queen, and there were endless mornings in which she imagined they were two bright fish, swimming in the blue sea of the queen's silk-hung bed.

Harry wanted another child. "Another daughter," he said, "so little Jeyne doesn't grow up spoiled." Alayne whispered this to the queen one day, and when she returned home it was to see the servants packing.

"Are we leaving?" she asked the chief steward, amazed.

" _You_ aren't," Harry said, coming into the room with a roll of clothing. "The queen has ordered me and most of the retinue home. She says I must take a census of the Vale and send it to her."

"A census?"

"Lists! Numbers of soldiers, numbers of crops, numbers of blasted beets in my blasted cellar. She says all the liege lords must do so."

"But I…"

"You are to stay behind, as I said. It seems our queen can't live without her pet." Harry said the words with an ugly look. She'd never heard her kind husband sound so bitter.

"I don't – I didn't know, Harry. Believe me. I want to go home with you."

"Truthfully, Alayne?" he asked. "You don’t enjoy being waited upon and given gifts and sung to by the queen's minstrels?"

It was impossible to say what she felt. She raised her hands helplessly. "I wish I could be at home. I miss my children."

"I am sure you do," said Harry, and slammed the lid of a trunk.

Her belongings were moved into the castle, and she watched the caravan from the Vale depart the city with a heavy heart. She was soon called to the queen's study, though, and her steps lightened as she went.

They read poems to each other sometimes, eating dates from the same bowl. Alayne was learning to dance properly at last, and they would join the other dancers in the hall when no one was around to watch. Alayne still wore her western clothing, but she admired the queen for wearing whatever she pleased. The queen _did_ whatever she pleased, and whenever Alayne thought the courtiers would surely protest at some new order, they never did.

"People are sheep," the queen told her, lying in bed under woven Dothraki blankets. "They want order in their lives, and they want someone to bark at them to do it."

Alayne giggled.

"You're imagining me barking, aren't you?"

"Yes, your majesty."

The queen propped herself up on one elbow. "I think we've had enough of 'your majesty,' little rabbit. I believe it is time you called me by my name. In private, of course."

"Yes… Daenerys."

"Dany."

Alayne frowned. "Dany?"

"A nickname. It reminds me of the few happy memories from my childhood."

"I see," said Alayne. "Dany."

"Was your childhood happy, there on the coast?"

"Yes," said Alayne. "My father was kind to me. We took walks on the beach."

"And no one minded that you were only a natural daughter?"

"There are plenty of Stones in the mountains," said Alayne, reciting a popular joke from the Vale.

Dany smiled. "You are a precious stone, though."

Alayne groaned and threw a pillow at Dany's head.

They went to see the dragons one day. Alayne went down the narrow stairs to the caverns slowly, watching her footing, but Dany took them two at a time, her lantern bobbing in her hand. The big black one raised his head as she approached, and Alayne's breath caught in her throat, her heart throbbing like a frightened sparrow.

"See?" Dany said. "My loves."

They were her loves indeed, and longer Alayne stayed in the Red Keep the more she realized how much of her heart Dany had given to the dragons. She was often gone for most of a day, speaking with them or cleaning them, or riding out to watch them feed over the fields behind Rosby. Alayne stayed inside and read a book, or wrote letters to Harry and Randa. The Vale seemed very far away.

One evening Dany waited for the attendants to leave them, then reached into a drawer with a wicked look. She gestured to Alayne to pull the curtains shut, and once they were in the blue, candle-lit darkness she opened the box in her hands.

"Is it – some kind of incense?" Alayne asked after a moment.

"Better," Dany said.

She showed Alayne how to fill the long pipe, tapping the powder in place with a little silver spoon, and how to draw curls of purple smoke into her lungs without coughing. It took several tries, and by the time Alayne had managed it the smoke had already taken hold, little tendrils curling into her fingers and toes. Her head began to hum, the individual hairs on her head standing up pleasantly, and there was a little tingle right between her eyes. She laid back and studied the hanging on the ceiling, tracing the gold embroidery with her eyes.

"I first tried this when I was very young," Dany said, taking another long pull. "My brother was fond of it."

"Your brother?"

Dany blew out a smoke ring, huffing it through her mouth. "Tell me, did you have brothers and sisters?"

Alayne thought. Her eyes were starting to cross, and thinking was rather like walking through marsh mud. "Yes," she said, settling for truth. "Four brothers and a sister."

"Many Stones in the mountains indeed," said Dany with a laugh, extinguishing the pipe. She settled it back in the box and shut the lid with a snap. "Where are they now?"

Alayne pushed back into the marsh. "One brother is at the Wall," she said. "One I know is dead. The other two are lost."

"Lost?"

"They're probably dead," Alayne said.

Dany laid down beside her. "Your sister?"

"She's lost too."

Dany reached over to take Alayne's hand. "That's terrible. Was it the war?"

Alayne tried to shrug, but found it difficult while lying down. "Everything's the war, isn't it? We just got separated."

"Oh," Dany said. "Were you traveling?"

"We were," Alayne mumbled, giving up on keeping her eyes open. "Arya n' me. The boys were up north."

"Arya?"

"My sister. We were at…" Alayne yawned, unable to stop. "Here. King's Landing."

"And the boys were – up north?"

"Home," Alayne managed. "With mother."

Dany was quiet. Alayne could just hear her breathing, warm and quick against her face.

"Tell me, Alayne," Dany said slowly. "Where was your mother from?"

"The river," Alayne whispered, and fell asleep.

When she woke the next morning, the curtains had been pulled back. Her head ached and rang, and when she opened her eyes at first she thought she was imagining the ring of white around her. It resolved into seven men, though, and she heard a gentle voice as someone took her arm.

"Come along," said Ser Barristan Selmy, and the Queensguard took her down.

She waited in the cold, wet darkness for hours, it seemed, until someone brought her a bowl of something. Hours more and it was a jug of water and a chamber pot. She made use of both gratefully. She waited, but no one brought her a blanket. And Dany never came.

"Is there some mistake?" she asked a jailer the next morning when he brought her a fresh bowl of porridge. This one was almost warm. "I don't understand."

"You will," he said gruffly.

Over and over she played out the previous night. Dany had brought out the long pipe. They'd spoken of childhood. She knew – she _knew_ she hadn't said anything about Winterfell. _Stones in the mountains_ , she thought. She had been a stone for so long. No one was ever supposed to find her.

_"Arya?"_

_"My sister."_

She woke from the first sleep she'd had in hours when the door slammed down the hall, an echoing crash off the walls. She struggled to her feet, almost numb with cold. The light of several torches found her.

"Dany!"

The queen's face was stone like the walls around them, calm and merciless as the Silent Men.

"Your majesty," she corrected herself, dropping to one knee.

There was a long silence.

"Sansa Stark."

She looked up. "Alayne."

"Sansa Stark."

" _Alayne_."

A moment longer, and the light left her.

There was no bowl or jug the next day. The jailer came to take away her chamber pot, and did not return.

The queen did.

Days it went on, how long, she did not know. The queen returned six, seven times, but that couldn't be days. She'd be dead with no water, wouldn't she? Perhaps they were tricking her, she thought. Returning several times a day, making her think she was there longer than she was.

She tried to count the hours, once. Marking off seconds, minutes. She fell asleep and woke up with that same gnawing, biting clench in her stomach, the ache in her body from the stone floor.

"Sansa Stark."

" _Alayne_."

She had children, three of them. A husband. She wondered if he knew. She wondered if he was still angry with her for staying. She wished she had given him another daughter. She wished her father were alive.

"Sansa Stark."

" _Alayne_."

When the queen looked at her, it was if she were looking through a wall. Or at a mirror, reflecting only her own violet eyes.

"Sansa Stark."

" _Alayne_."

She lived in darkness, and when the light came she could hardly see, dazzled by the flickering torches. Her ears rang too, accustomed only to the silence of the halls. No other prisoners were held down here. Once or twice she heard dim, far-off cries, and she covered her ears and let the tears seep down once again, making tracks in the dust on her face.

The door slammed. The torches came. The queen waited.

"Sansa Stark."

Her throat was so dry she could not speak. She coughed, and the roughness made her cough again. She would never be able to stop, she would choke to death down here on her own name.

"Sansa Stark."

She managed one gasping breath, and looked into the queen's eyes. Dany was tired.

"Sansa Stark."

After a moment, she nodded.

The gate screeched open, and strong hands pulled her up. She could not walk but had to be dragged, her frozen feet scratching and banging against the cobblestones. She looked behind her, but Dany didn't move, waiting back there in the darkness.

Someone gave her something to drink. She swallowed as much as she could, and felt a long, blank nothing.

She was still cold when she woke, horribly confused, hours later, bound hand and foot. She moved her tongue experimentally in her mouth and found that she could at least swallow again. She opened her eyes, slowly, and then squinted against the light of many candles.

"Give her enough water so that she can talk."

She lifted her head to find the speaker -- low-voiced, male -- and a dipper was put to her mouth. It was copper and tasted tangy, the sharp edge cutting into her lip, but she drank quickly, half the water going into her nose or down her cheeks. The chilly air hit the wet places on her skin and made her shiver.

"Ask."

There was no way to see anything in the light, and she closed her eyes again, retreating into her own darkness.

"Are you Sansa Stark?"

"Yes."

"Child of Eddard Stark?"

"Yes."

"Sister of Robb Stark?"

"Yes."

"Heir to a family of traitors?"

She hesitated.

"Heir to a family of traitors?"

"Heir to the Stark family."

Someone slapped her. She gasped, flinching.

"Heir to a family of traitors?"

"Heir to a family of traitors," she whispered.

There was silence, and the sound of people speaking softly.

"You are not the natural daughter of Petyr Baelish?"

"No."

"But you conspired with him."

"No."

Another slap. A tear leaked from beneath her closed eyes.

"Petyr Baelish conspired with the pretender queen Cersei to murder the traitor Robert Baratheon, and with the dowager Queen of Highgarden to kill the traitor's son Joffrey. You would have us believe that there was no conspiracy between you two?"

"None that I knew of."

Another slap. She bit her lip, hard.

"There was no conspiracy to raise to make you Lady of the Vale, and having done that, to take the north in your name?"

"He wanted that. I only wanted to survive." She had cried out her words, waiting for another slap, but none came.

"Was it survival when you came to King's Landing?"

The new voice was softer, feminine, and her eyes flew open, looking for Dany.

"We had to come," she said, her words rushing out. "You commanded us. I wanted to show our loyalty to the queen. Only that."

"Only that."

Another silence, while she looked around frantically, trying to pick out faces. They were standing behind the candles, though, and her eyes were blurred from the long darkness.

"Leave us," Dany said, and there was a sound of shuffling feet, a slamming door.

"Dany, please," she said. "Dany. I was what I seemed. Alayne, Lady of the Vale. I have three children. I loved you as my friend. My queen."

"Do you know how I knew?" Dany asked, and she was there suddenly, her face still calm. "Someone remarked upon your red hair one day, after I sent your husband away. _Like a Tully_ , she said, with that red hair and those blue eyes. She went quiet when she saw me, of course. Everyone knew what happened to your uncle. But I kept thinking."

"I never even _met_ him," she said. "I spent my whole life up north. The rebellion was over before I was even born."

"I consulted the records. I saw that Petyr Baelish had been fostered with the Tullys, and that he had married Lady Lysa not long before his death. I knew who you must be."

"Dany, it doesn't make _sense_! Why would I want to harm you? My father was dead before you ever came to Westeros. I hate the Lannisters as much as you do."

"Your father," Dany said. "Your father who stood there and watched the Kingslayer kill _my_ father. And you ask me to believe you were only my friend."

The tears fell fast now. "I'm not your enemy. I had to hide from _everyone_ , don't you understand? And once I lied, I couldn't stop lying. I had to stay hidden, always."

"You'll stop lying now," Dany said, her voice losing its silver calm. "You'll tell me everything."

"There is _nothing_ ," she said, desperate. "I was a girl, I lost my father and mother, I gained and lost another father, and then I was married and I had children and I was _happy_. And I met you, my queen, and it grieved me every day that I could share everything with you but this secret, because – "

"Because you knew I would kill you for it," Dany said. She leaned in close, her hair falling down. "You say you came to King's Landing to offer me loyalty. And you were the greatest traitor of all."

She cried openly now. Dany looked a moment longer, then turned away.

"I should, perhaps, give you to the torturers. I am told I should keep them in better practice. But there is no need to make an example of you. No one will ever know."

"Harry – my children – "

"You had an accident. You fell down a flight of stairs. We weren't able to recover your body, sadly."

"My body?"

"The dragons, you see."

She struggled violently against her restraints. Dany looked back once more, then went to the door.

The guards unbuckled her and dragged her out once more, past the queen who looked more than ever like carven stone. Only her eyes, like two amethysts, showed any life, brimming with tears as they went past.

There were secret ways to reach the dragons' caverns. She got lost trying to follow their path, trying to count the twists and turns, as if it mattered. They arrived all too soon at the great wooden door and she stood numbly, watching the chief guard unlock it with a twisted brass key.

They pushed her forward. She limped on her bruised feet, and when she crossed the threshold they shut the door.

In the darkness, she heard her heart beat louder than anything. Her breath was next, and finally the little whimpers she couldn't seem to keep back. But the dragons were moving below, heavy snorts, dragging scales, and soon that was all she could hear.

Faces swam before her. Petyr, Jon, Jeyne, soft round little things she would never see again. Another tear slipped out. Harry, whose last words to her had been angry, whose last kiss had been hard and perfunctory. She squeezed her eyes shut harder. Petyr Baelish, who had both saved and doomed her.

And her family, her lost family, father and mother and brothers and sister, playing in the snow in the northern forest, the people she had not let herself think of in so many years, all gone, all lost. All, perhaps, waiting for her somewhere.

"Sansa," whispered Alayne, and she began to descend the stairs.


End file.
